


codename: flamingo

by colourexplosion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hate to Love, M/M, West Wing AU, this is really mostly just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8817277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: It starts because Harry gets a death threat.
 A West Wing au.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dramaturgicallycorrect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramaturgicallycorrect/gifts).



> hello all!! first and foremost, this is for kate, who I've been promising this fic to for like, a year. haha. here it is! second, it's a west wing au that roughly follows simon and cj's arc, except doesn't end the same way. third, it's all fake and I don't own any of it!! fourth, it's mostly un-beta'd so pls don't hold it against me. fifth, written for the bakerfest!! very much fun thank u ladies for hosting it!!!! 
> 
> hope you like it!

It starts because Harry gets a death threat. 

As the second most visible person in the White House, Harry’s used to getting all sorts of nasty e-mails. Growing up as a queer man means he’s _been_ used to it, but there’s still nothing like the way your heart freezes in your chest when the _you’re disgusting_ e-mails turn into _I’m going to kill you_. 

Honestly, as terrifying as it is, he doesn’t want to mention it. It’s embarrassing, is what it is. He’s not the only one to get a death threat and he works in one of the safest buildings in the United States. It’s not as if some madman with a gun’s going to come running through the halls of the west wing to shoot him. He tells himself it’s a one-off and there’s no reason to be worried and forgets about it. He’ll be fine, he’s sure. 

\--

“Can I borrow your computer for a sec?” Niall’s stood in the doorway of Harry’s office, arms crossed. “Louis needs something and mine in the bullpen won’t turn on. _Again_.” 

“Are you sure Louis hasn’t sabotaged it? Again?” Harry asks, scooting away from the e-mail he’d been reading. Niall cackles and shrugs and hunches over his keyboard. Harry busies himself with preparing his notes. He’s got the noon briefing coming up, and while it’s a slow day, he’s always intensely afraid of fucking something up. 

“Uh, Harry?” 

Harry flicks one of his pages over, crossing out a line with a pen. “Hm?” 

“What’s this — Have you seen this?” 

Harry’s head snaps up. Niall’s voice sounds tentative, worried, _frightened_ , and Harry knows exactly what he’s looking at. 

“Don’t — ” he starts, but Niall’s already turned his wide, terrified eyes on him. “It’s nothing,” Harry insists, shaking his head. “Really. I get them all the time.” 

Niall’s eyebrows arch on his forehead. “Death threats? You get death threats all the time?” 

“Well, no,” Harry says, shifting. Fuck, he doesn’t want to be talking about this. He’s got a briefing, there’s an oil crisis and he’s fairly certain some astronauts are stuck on the ISS. He doesn’t have time for this. “But I get nasty e-mails.” 

“Harry — ”

“It’s nothing, seriously.” Harry tries to say it in his calmest voice. If he’s calm then Niall will be calm. Maybe. “Honestly. It’s fine. Just leave it.” 

Niall worries his lip between his teeth for a moment before shaking his head slowly. “Sure, if that’s what you want.” 

“It is.” Harry glances at the clock and gathers his notes. “Now come on, walk me to the briefing room.” 

Niall nods and stands. Harry ushers him out the door, relieved. The feeling vanishes when Niall stops and says, “Hey, Louis, you have a second?” 

Fuck. No. Harry sighs as he spots Louis walking by at his usual brisk pace. 

“Niall — ” 

Louis stops abruptly. “Yeah, tell me,” he says, and sits in Harry’s chair when Niall gestures to it. 

“Read this,” Niall tells him, and Harry stands by the door, his fists clenched. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” he starts, but Louis holds up a finger, his eyes scanning over the screen. His mouth has gone hard when he finally looks up. 

“You need to call Alberto,” he says, pointing a finger aggressively at Harry before he can say anything. “No, I don’t want to hear it, Styles. This is serious. Call Alberto.” 

Harry sighs and nods. “Fine, I’ll call him. Will you get out of my office now? I’ve got a briefing.” 

Niall ducks his head and leaves, but Louis takes a moment longer, stopping next to Harry at the door. He pokes him hard in the chest. 

“I mean it, Harry.” He’s got his Deputy Chief of Staff voice on, the one he uses when an intern’s majorly fucked something up. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “This is serious stuff. Call Alberto.” 

Harry does roll his eyes this time. “I said I’ll call him, I’ll call him.” He shoos Louis out the door. “Come on, I’ve got things to do.” 

“Yeah, yeah, we know, you’re very beautiful and important,” Louis says, mimicking Harry’s eye roll as he walks out of the office. Harry doesn’t deign to answer, just shuts his door and stalks down the hallway into the briefing room. 

\--

Harry calls Alberto, who sends Preston down to look at the e-mail. It’s embarrassing and inconvenient and takes up too much of Harry’s time. It gets even better when Preston insists they’ll have to take Harry’s laptop, just for a few hours to set up some filters, and makes him use the desktop that hasn’t been upgraded since the last administration. 

The meeting with the President is just icing on the cake, really. 

“We’re going to assign you a secret service detail,” the President tells him, in the middle of the oval office. Christ, what an ordeal this has become. 

“I appreciate the concern, Madam President, I really do,” Harry says, putting on his best smile, “but I can’t do that. I don’t want a security detail.” 

The President raises an eyebrow. Never a good sign. “Excuse me?” 

“It’s just — I don’t — I can’t appear weak,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s already so difficult, what with being out and dealing with everyone who looks at me and sees me as less because I’m not what they think I should be. A security detail would make that worse.” 

“I see,” the President says, nodding. Harry doesn’t think for a second that he’s really convinced him. “Preston, show him.” 

Harry frowns as Preston steps around the desk with a large envelope in his hands. He opens it, and slides something out. Pictures, Harry realizes, once Preston has turned them around. Pictures of him. 

“That’s, ” he says, taking a halting step forward. “That’s me at the gym.” And it is, a photo of him in his sweaty white t-shirt, basketball shorts and tennis shoes, a towel thrown over his shoulder. There’s more: one of Harry in a cafe from a few days ago, one of him buying a newspaper from a vendor on the street, and one from this morning, wearing the same suit he has on now, right in front of his apartment. 

“Oh my god,” he says, and sways on his feet. Preston catches him before he can fall into any of the antique furniture, but Harry barely registers Preston’s hands on him. “That was this morning. That’s my apartment building.” 

“We know,” the President says quietly. “So sign the paper.” 

Harry blinks, swallows and takes the pen that’s offered. 

\--

Special Agent Liam Payne shows up the next day, taking post outside of Harry’s office door. He stands with his feet exactly shoulder width apart, his hands clasped lightly in front of himself and stares down the hallway. In the twenty minutes Harry spends blatantly watching him, he doesn’t move a muscle. 

“Are you a statue?” he asks from behind his desk. Payne doesn’t move for a moment, and Harry holds his breath while he waits. 

It takes a long thirty seconds for Special Agent Payne to shift his weight just slightly and tilt his head back. “I’m sorry?” 

“I asked if you were a statue,” Harry says, feeling idiotic and awkward like he hasn’t since college. “But you just moved, so obviously you’re not.’’

“Obviously not,” Payne responds, his voice infuriatingly even. It’s got a nice tone to it, sort of authoritative but kind at the same time. Harry thinks it’d probably be comforting to hear in the middle of a crisis. 

“It’s just that your shoulders are so,” He gestures for a moment, even though Payne hasn’t turned around to look at him. “Broad, I guess. Broad-shouldered. Did you play football?” 

His head turns at that, and Harry can see one of his eyebrows arched. “What?” 

Harry rests his chin in his hand. “Running back? Full back? Quarterback?” 

Payne twists at the waist to look at him fully, the straight line of his mouth wavering a bit. “Wide receiver,” he says, “And special teams. Kicker.” 

Harry grins, but he’s not sure why. It feels like a victory, getting Special Agent Payne to turn around and almost crack a smile. He’s always known the effect his charm can have on people — it’s how he got into PR and politics, basically — but it always feels extra good when he can crack someone like this. Like Payne. 

“Good,” Harry says, sitting up straight in his chair. “I feel safer already.” 

“I should hope so, sir,” Payne says, and turns back around.

Maybe having a security detail won’t be so bad after all.

\--

Three days later and Harry knows he was completely wrong. Having a security detail is the _Worst_ , second only to his detail being headed up by Special Agent Payne, who’s a serious pain in Harry’s ass. 

“You can’t just take people’s spark plugs,” Harry insists, stalking through the hallway to his office, unwinding his scarf as he goes. “Or their alternator!” 

“Sure I can,” Payne says, and Harry isn’t looking at him but he can tell he’s shrugging in that infuriating way he has. “All you have to do is open the hood.” 

Harry stops and turns, sending him a look that’s made interns cry. Agent Payne’s face doesn’t change at all. 

“You know it’s for your own good,” he says, in that infuriatingly condescending way he has. Harry huffs and turns on his heel, back toward his office. He’d thought it might be fun and romantic to have someone looking out for him, that it might make him feel safer or comforted or like, maybe even a tiny bit less lonely, but so far it’s been awful. Payne’s refused to let him do even the simplest things like drive his own car or go alone to check the mail. He insists on accompanying Harry _everywhere_ , including to the bathroom when he’s out to lunch with friends. 

It’s embarrassing and annoying and the last time anyone as cute as Special Agent Liam Payne saw his dick, Harry hadn’t been using the urinal. That just makes it worse somehow, too. The fact that Payne’s so stupidly attractive. He’s got the broad football shoulders and a puppy-dog face and a jaw that looks like it was chiseled from stone. He’s also got a birthmark just on the base of his neck that Harry has, honest-to-God, caught himself daydreaming about touching. How ridiculous is that? Harry’s an adult, he knows not to go around touching people’s necks, and yet he still finds himself fighting the urge whenever Payne’s shirt collar’s a little too loose. 

Harry’s a mess, honestly, and the fact that apparently someone still really, actually wants to kill him isn’t making it any better. 

—

There's a list that Harry’s started writing about Special Agent Liam Payne. It's not terribly long, but that's only because Harry makes sure to choose the most annoying things about him. For instance, the fact that he insists on searching the bathroom before Harry uses it is bothersome, but not list-worthy. The fact that Special Agent Payne insists on standing next to his treadmill, back rigid as a goalpost and hands clasped in front of himself -- fully donned in an official Presidential Staff sweatsuit, no less -- rates number three on his list. 

Number two is the way his shoes squeak on the floor in the west wing and number one is the fact that he brings Harry a perfectly made cup of tea every morning. Harry doesn't want to like him, or be endeared by him. The fact that his life's in danger, apart from being absolutely terrifying, is turning out to be more of an inconvenience than anything else. 

Mostly inconvenient in the gym, where, if Harry wants to make eye contact with an attractive man, he has to look past the infuriatingly square back of Liam's head. No, Special Agent Payne’s head. Whatever. It's annoying, is what it is, and Harry’s seriously considering moving it to the number two spot. 

Then, miracle of miracles, Payne moves, shifts on his feet and turns, but it startles Harry so badly that he misses a step and nearly falls. 

"You okay?" Payne asks, a quirk to his eyebrow that makes Harry narrow his eyes in reflex. 

“Fine,” Harry says, slowing to a walk as his program ends. Special Agent Payne watches him, and Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes track over his body, where his shirt’s clung to his skin with sweat. God it’s been too long since Harry’s picked anyone up. 

“That was a long run,” Payne says eventually, and Harry shrugs. 

“I’ve got a lot to work out.” 

\--

There's a package at the door when Harry gets back from the gym, Special Agent Payne trailing in behind him. He bends down to pick it up, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his bicep. 

"I've got it," Agent Payne says, and tugs Harry gently away until he's at the other end of the hall. Payne says something into his dumb headset, radioing the agent posted at the door of Harry's building and murmuring something about a bomb threat.

"Please, it's not a bomb," Harry says, rolling his eyes, but Payne doesn't smile back at him or laugh or anything. He just looks at Harry and says, much too seriously for Harry's liking, 

"We'd rather not take that chance." 

It turns out not to be a bomb, obviously, and is actually just the pair of boots Harry ordered a week ago in a bout of insomnia fueled shopping, but still. He can't shake the uneasiness that's settled in his stomach, can't keep from worrying his bottom lip so much that it gets sore, swollen and tender to touch. He just can't get Payne’'s face out of his head, how serious he'd looked, how...Agent-ly. 

The past few weeks with him haven't been so bad, have really just felt like having a really annoying set of roommates, but Payne and the other agents are here for a job. He's here to protect Harry's life. Harry’s life needs protecting. Because someone wants to kill him. 

He moves into his bedroom, tossing the box on his bed and running a hand through his hair. This is too much. He doesn’t know anything about anything, about whether or not they’re even close to catching the person who sent him the e-mail, or if they even know who it is. He does know there have been more, because he’ll see the agents frowning while they monitor Harry’s computer in the morning. 

A soft knock on his door pulls Harry from his thoughts, and he frowns as Payne walks through the door. Harry sighs. 

“Yeah?” 

Payne’s face stays neutral. “Just checking on the plan for tonight.”

It’s so predictable that Harry’s actually a little mad about it. Of course Payne doesn’t care about how Harry’s doing, just what he’s doing. “Making sure I follow the rules? Don’t worry, I’ll let you check the shower before I get in.” 

“Thank you,” Payne says, neutral tone matching his neutral face, which makes Harry even angrier. 

“Well do it now so I can go to sleep, please,” he says, flapping his arms. He’s sure the other agents can hear him being a brat through the walls, but he can’t bring himself to care. This whole situation is ridiculous, and Payne’s refusal to act like an actual person is only driving Harry crazier. 

Payne nods his head and slips into the bathroom, re-emerging a moment later. “All clear,” he says, and Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he says, pulling his still-damp shirt over his head and tossing it toward the laundry basket. Payne turns on his heel and heads for the door and Harry snorts, says bitterly, “What, you’re not going to stand outside the bathroom door? What if someone climbs through my window and murders me?” 

Payne pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I could do that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you don’t want me to, and, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I don’t want to make your life more difficult. I am trying to help you, you know.” 

Guilt seeps into Harry’s belly, mixing with the frustration. “Yeah. Whatever.” He turns around, stopping when he feels a hand on his arm. 

“I know this is hard, Harry,” he says quietly, brow furrowed. It’s as adorable as it is annoying. Harry doesn’t want or need another reason to like Agent Payne. 

“It’s infuriating,” he answers, “and so stupid that I can’t even really think about it because if I do, it makes me even angrier. So, yeah. It’s hard.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Agent Payne repeats, stupidly calm. “If there’s anything I can do to make it easier —”

“You and your friends could pack up your stuff and get out of my apartment,” Harry says, waving a hand. He regrets it the moment it’s out, though, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Short of that,” he says before Liam can say anything. “I guess just maybe acting like a human being some of the time.” 

Alright, still not the nicest he’s ever been, but Agent Payne is looking at him with a quirk to his mouth like he thinks it’s funny, so Harry’ll take it. 

“I can do that,” Agent Payne tells him. “Anything else?” 

A knot loosens in Harry’s chest, tension he hadn’t even known was there releasing. “We’re good.” He turns toward the bathroom, and then abruptly back to Agent Payne. “Actually, I’m taking my sister shopping tomorrow during lunch. Gucci at noon.” 

Special Agent Payne nods. “Gucci at noon. Got it,” he says, and for the first time Harry actually feels just a tiny bit safer. 

— 

The mall seems a bit crowded for a week day, but Harry figures they _are_ in a major metropolitan area. Special Agent Payne seems less than enthused, what with how he keeps glowering around at random patrons, as if to ward off evil spirits. 

“Remember we’re acting like normal people today, Agent Payne,” Harry says, giving him a nudge in the back. Agent Payne snorts. 

“There’s a time and a place for that. Don’t think that’s here.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and falls back with Gemma, who’s absorbed in something on her phone. They’re looking for a dress for her today. She’s in one of those weddings where the bride thinks she’s being particularly benevolent by letting the bridesmaids choose their own dresses, but it’s actually secretly a test or whatever. Harry doesn’t really understand. He only knows that he doesn’t get many opportunities to spend time with Gemma, so he’ll take any chance he can get. 

Gucci is basically empty at this time on a weekday, so Agent Payne stops stalking around and plants himself between Harry and the door. The whole thing comes off as over-dramatic, but Harry’s also just chosen a sheer black and floral shirt to try on, so he supposes the drama works, overall. 

“I thought we were shopping for me,” Gemma says, a hand on her hip. She’s smiling though, so she’s obviously not mad. Harry knows it’s practically impossible for Gemma to get mad at him. Some kind of sibling magic or something. 

Harry huffs. “You’re taking too long.” Gemma rolls her eyes and goes back to the dresses, while Harry nudges Agent Payne in the hip. 

“I’ll be in the changing room,” he says, though the only indication he has of Agent Payne listening is the slightest tilt of the head. “So don’t freak out or anything.” 

Predictably, Agent Payne doesn’t answer, but Harry wanders into the room anyway, slipping off his clothes and pulling the shirt on. It’s ridiculously see-through, much more like something he’d wear in his youth to a club during college than as the acting Press Secretary of the White House. 

Still, it doesn’t stop him from throwing open the door and lounging against the side like a lingerie model in a magazine. “How do I look?” 

Gemma snorts. “I’m not sure it’s legal for you to wear that while representing the President,” she says, but shrugs. “But other than that, I like it. You could wear it when you visit Mom for Christmas.” 

Harry nods, considering. He runs his hands down his front, feeling the smooth fabric once more and looks up. Agent Payne’s looking at him, color in his cheeks. Harry grins at him, big and charming like he does when he wants to knock people off their feet and the color on Agent Payne’s face deepens, and he turns away. 

“Think I’ll get it,” Harry says as he makes his way back into the changing room. The only answer is a snort from Gemma. 

— 

The days pass and Harry wakes up, goes to work and comes home, trailed by his team of agents. Apparently his e-mail’s still getting threats, but they’re no closer to catching the person. It’s frustrating, but Harry has to admit, they have sort of worked out a system. 

Usually it’s Special Agent Payne on Mornings and Nights, as he’s the main Agent in charge, and then Agent Charles in between. There’s a few who camp outside of Harry’s apartment and another two or so who are in the west wing at all times, ready and willing at Liam’s disposal. 

It’s an odd thing to become accustomed to, but Harry has. Or, is still getting used to it, or whatever. It’s weird when he thinks about it too much and thankfully his job is such that he doesn’t _have_ much time to think about it. 

Harry hums to himself as he works in his kitchen, cherishing his day off. It’s Thanksgiving, a national holiday and the President pardoned a turkey yesterday and gave the Thanksgiving proclamation this morning and now it’s a day off. The lid is on and Harry’s bopping around his kitchen in a t-shirt and boxers. 

“Smells good in here.” 

Harry turns to see Agent Payne leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s not wearing his big black coat for once, and the sleeves of his dress shirt have been rolled up to the elbow, revealing his forearms. It’s more attractive than Harry really wants to think about. 

“I should hope so, Special Agent Payne,” Harry says, waving a mixing spoon around. “I’ve worked very hard on this.” 

Payne tilts his head, that quirk coming back to his mouth. His eyes scan the kitchen, “Have you ever done this before?” 

Scoffing, Harry puts the spoon down and puts his hands on his hips. “Of course I have, Agent Payne.” 

“You don’t have to keep calling me that, you know,” Payne says, pushing off the doorframe. “Liam’s fine, for when we’re here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, an odd sort of thrill going through him at the thought. “How revolutionary of you. First names.” 

Agent Pa— No, _Liam_ rolls his eyes, and takes a step closer. “What are you making?” 

“A cake for Gemma. And my mom, I guess.” Harry picks up the spoon again, returning to his batter. Liam appears in his periphery but Harry ignores him, focusing on spooning the batter into the greased and floured cake pan. He sets the bowl down and turns to open the oven door, turning back in time to see Liam’s finger popping from the leftover batter into his mouth. 

Harry makes a strangled noise. The nerve of him. “Excuse you.” 

Liam grins at him around his finger, his eyes crinkling up. It’s stupidly cute and makes Harry’s chest do really weird things. “That’s good.” 

“Of course it’s good,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “I used to be a baker.” 

Liam’s eyes widen. “Did you really?” 

“Yeah, in high school.” Harry picks up the cake and slides it into the oven, closing the door and setting the timer. He taps it a couple of times, just to make sure it ticks. “Worked at a bakery after school, and then in the summers between semesters in college.” 

Liam’s shoot up his forehead. “That’s where you learned all this?” 

“Some of it.” Harry nods. “Some stuff I taught myself. Don’t look so surprised. I might get insulted.” 

“Oh no,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean — I’m impressed, is all. That’s really — I had no idea you did that.” 

Harry snorts. “Did you think I was born a press secretary, Liam?” 

Liam mumbles something Harry can’t hear, so Harry ignores it and turns back to the counter, grabbing a packet of cream cheese and the cinnamon. “Come on,” he says, “If you’re going to stand there, you’re going to help. We have frosting to make.” 

“Alright,” Liam says, “What do you need me to do?” 

They make a mess, obviously, with powdered sugar everywhere, splotches of cream on their clothes, and butter on just about every surface imaginable. But Harry finds he doesn’t mind, because for the first time in two years he actually has someone with him on Thanksgiving. It’s not just Harry and a bottle of wine and whatever shitty movies are playing on HBO. It’s Harry and Liam and two agents outside and a disaster of a kitchen, but it’s nice. It feels normal, which should probably freak Harry out, but it doesn’t really do anything except make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

It’s odd, but Harry definitely doesn’t hate it.

—

The post mid-term election slump means Harry spends more of his nights at home or at the gym than usual. There’s always something happening somewhere in the world, but it seems as though at least America’s managed to calm down a bit for the holidays. 

There’s visiting dignitaries, of course, and holiday parties to attend — Liam and the other agents always hot on Harry’s heels, obviously — but Harry gets to go home before midnight at least two times a week. It’s basically a miracle. 

Since it’s been so long, Harry decides a little celebration is in order. Alright, not a celebration per se, but a night to relax and not think about the fact that his phone could still ring any second or that he could get shot through his bedroom window. 

He pulls a polka dot box from under his bed and takes it out into the living room, turning the channel to a bad Lifetime movie and settling in on the couch. He rifles through the box for the perfect color of nail polish, deciding on a nice, festive red. He’s got one leg bent, foot on the edge of the couch as he paints the toes when Liam walks in.

“Hi,” Liam says, brow furrowed, eyes scanning the room. 

Harry gives him a flash of a smile. “Liam. Thought you were off tonight.” 

“I am.” The only light in the room is the television and the faint overlap from the kitchen, but Harry swears he can see Liam’s cheeks pink up. “Thought I’d come by and check anyway.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.” He waves the polish brush around. “Just having a quiet night in.” 

Liam nods. “Well, good. I guess I’ll uh — I’ll go, then.” 

Harry frowns up at him. The thought of Liam not being there when Harry goes to sleep seems wrong somehow. Strange. “You don’t have to,” he blurts, feeling his own face heat. “I mean. You could watch the movie? Paint your nails.” Harry gives his fingers a waggle, smiling like a doofus to play it off. Did he really just ask Liam to stay? That can’t be allowed. Can it? 

Liam looks at him for a moment, glancing to the television and then back to Harry. 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to stay for a bit,” Liam says, and gingerly sits on the couch. Harry’s situated himself in the middle, so even though Liam’s next to the arm, he’s still much closer to Harry than he’d be usually. It’s jarring, a bit, to have him so close. To be able to smell his cologne. 

Harry blinks, and scoots back, holding out the polish and putting his feet in Liam’s lap. “Make yourself useful, then.” 

It’s mostly a joke, honestly. He’s grinning like he does when he’s trying to charm someone, or when he’s trying to smooth something over in the press room, but not really expecting anyone to take him seriously. Liam, though, just looks at the bottle and takes it from him gently, uncapping it and drawing the brush out, wiping the excess on the rim. Like he’s had practice. 

“Hold still,” Liam murmurs, and Harry’s not sure he can even breathe right now, much less move. 

Liam wraps his hand loosely around Harry’s ankle, thumb resting on his arch. He takes the brush and, with a steady hand, paints Harry’s big toenail red. He doesn’t say anything as he paints the others, his head down as he dips and paints, dips and paints. Harry only sucks in a breath once Liam’s painted the last bit of his pinky toe. 

“You have a lot of experience in that?” Harry asks, flexing his toes. Liam’s done a fairly good job, all told. 

“Older sisters,” Liam responds, adjusting Harry’s other foot on his lap. “Spent a lot of time at sleepovers.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows. He always got chased out of Gemma’s parties and ended up spending time with his mum while Gemma and her friends made a mess of the upstairs. 

“Sounds like a good time.” 

Liam shrugs, doesn’t answer and looks down at Harry’s other foot, grabbing the polish brush again. He goes to paint and pauses, hand suspended halfway to Harry’s toe. 

“Sorry, but does this say ‘big toe’?” 

Harry frowns. “What?” 

“Your toe, there’s writing on it.” 

“Oh.” Harry laughs. “That’s um. College. My friend Zayn had a tattoo gun, and he used to let me — You know. So I did that.” 

Liam looks up at him, face like a confused puppy, head tilted a bit. “You tattooed ‘big toe’ on your big toe?” 

“We’ve all got things we’re not proud of, Liam,” Harry says, voice solemn. Liam laughs, his whole face crinkling up like a chow chow’s, and yeah, Harry’s really got to stop comparing Liam to a dog. 

Liam paints his toenails, and then puts a second coat on both feet before blowing gently on them. It tickles a bit and Harry shivers, sitting up a little straighter, trying to ignore the pulse of heat in his belly. He doesn’t even have a foot fetish, honestly. 

“Thanks,” he says, putting his feet back on the floor. Liam looks up at him and smiles, and warmth unfurls in Harry’s chest. He leans in a bit, heartbeat ratcheting up as Liam does too, his gaze flickering to Harry’s mouth. 

“Not many Special Agents who’d paint a guy’s toenails for him,” Harry murmurs, exhaling shakily when Liam’s hand lands on his thigh, the pressure and warmth making him spread his legs. 

Liam leans even closer. “Not many men whose toenails I’d paint, to be honest.” 

Harry swallows thickly, feeling his heart climb into his throat. Liam’s close enough to kiss now, and Harry definitely wants to. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about it since that first day, since staring at Liam’s broad back for hours and wondering what his mouth would feel like. “Liam,” he says, voice rasping. “I —”

A car backfires outside and Liam pulls away as if he’s been burned. Harry blinks, reeling, not even registering the fact that he’s being hauled up and into a corner until he’s there and Liam’s face is right in front of his again, his hand cupping Harry’s cheek. 

“I need you to stay here,” Liam says, slowly and calmly. “I’m going to see what happened.” 

Harry nods, frowning. “Think it was just a car, though.” 

Liam smiles, a placating sort of thing. “Sure. But it’s my job to check. And keep you safe.” 

He does feel safe, is the thing. Liam turns away and converses with the other agents and goes to investigate while Harry sits on his kitchen floor with a different agent next to him. He’s not worried at all, though, is the thing. He should be, because gunshots can sound like cars backfiring and gunshots are generally bad, especially when someone’s vowed to kill you, but Harry’s just. He’s fine. He’s safe. Liam will take care of him. 

It occurs to Harry later, after Liam’s come back to give the all clear, that he may have a bit of a crush on him. Or, more than a bit of a crush, really. Like, he might actually have feelings for him. Real, actual feelings. 

It’s not nearly as terrifying as Harry thought it’d be. 

— 

The next few days are odd, to say the least. 

Liam is as professional as ever and Harry gets swept up in an accidental media war between the networks about the State of the Union, even though it’s more than a month away. In any case, he doesn’t really notice that Liam’s acting a bit odd until it’s almost the weekend again and Harry hasn’t left the White House for over 18 hours. 

“This is Special Agent Payne,” Harry hears outside his office, “Relieving Special Agent Mendes from duty. Flamingo is secure.” 

“Excuse me?” Harry says it before he can stop himself. In fact, he’s standing before he can stop himself, leaning his palms on his desk, as if that’ll help somehow. Get him closer to Liam, or something. “Did you just call me ‘flamingo’?” 

Liam glances at him. “You said you were tired of ‘Bambi’. I mentioned it for you when the code name changes came up in the meeting.” 

“What — You think ‘flamingo’ is better?” 

Liam shrugs. “It’s definitely not any worse.” 

“Oh my god.” Harry sits back down heavily, shaking his head. “Flamingo. Honestly.”

Liam doesn’t respond and Harry doesn’t notice, just goes back to his work. The past few weeks have been better — what with Liam actually speaking to him from time to time and like a normal person too — but when he realizes it’s time for the five o'clock briefing already and he and Liam have barely said a word to each other, well. It’s difficult to miss that something’s not right. 

It’s fine. Liam probably just regrets nearly kissing Harry the other night. It happens. It’s probably horrendously unethical for them to have any sort of relationship outside of their working one, platonic or otherwise. It messes things up, muddles them. Makes it harder for both of them to do their jobs. So, fine. It’s fine. They can be professionals. 

“It’s not like I wanted a relationship, you know,” Harry says, for probably the eightieth time since he’d wound up with a drink in his hand. Niall and Louis sit across from him, both rolling their eyes. Well, Louis is rolling his eyes which means Niall is too, but on the inside. “Just maybe a good fuck.” 

“You could still fuck him,” Louis says, shrugging. “I mean, once they catch whoever it is.” 

“What if they never catch them?” Harry sits up straighter, feeling his eyes go wide. “What if they never find out who’s sending me emails and I have to have Secret Service follow me around for the rest of my life?” 

Louis shrugs again. “At least you know he’d never stop talking to you.” 

“I really, honestly hate you sometimes,” Harry says to him, kicking his shin under the table when he bats his eyelashes and puckers his lips. “How do you deal with him, Niall?” 

Niall snorts. “Eh, I just ignore him.” 

Harry sighs. He’s quiet for a few moments, letting his attention get diverted around the bar, but his eyes still land on Liam, who he can see through the window next to the door. He still gets that warmth in his chest when he thinks about him, those butterflies in his stomach that haven’t gone away since realizing his feelings may be more than platonic. 

Harry sighs, looks back to the table and swallows the rest of his drink. “What am I gonna do?” 

“It’ll work itself out,” Niall says, giving him a kind look from across the table. “These kinds of things always do, if they’re meant to be.” 

— 

Later, when they’re walking home and Harry’s just the tiniest bit tipsy, his cheeks flushed warm from the rum even though it’s freezing outside, Liam catches his wrist and tugs him to safety when he nearly stumbles off the sidewalk. That means, of course, that Harry ends up much closer to him than he’s been in a while, and in a worse state than he should be, considering. 

“You’re tall,” Harry says, voice quiet. “I like that you’re tall.” 

Liam squeezes Harry’s wrist. “Harry — ”

Oh god, here it comes. The rejection. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, pulling away a bit. “Ignore me. Don’t know what I’m saying.” 

“No, please, just —” Liam grabs him again, taking both of Harry’s hands this time, holding them firmly. He looks up at Harry through his eyelashes, and Harry’s breath catches. “I like that you’re tall too,” he says. “That’s all.” 

“Okay,” Harry says, and they both nod. “Alright.” 

Harry supposes he can deal with that.

— 

All in all, it happens very fast. 

They catch the guy sending the emails while they’re in New York and the President’s watching a play and Harry’s had to travel with her because he serves at the pleasure of the President. 

It’s completely anti-climactic. Harry’s talking to the press, there’s a flurry of movement and Liam speaks into his ear piece in hushed tones and Harry continues on like there’s not something happening. When he finally manages to break away from the reporters, Liam takes him by the wrist and pulls him into a corner. 

“We caught him,” Liam says, breathless, and it takes Harry a moment to even realize what he’s talking about. 

When Harry finally gets it, his eyes go wide. “The guy? The death threat guy?” 

Liam nods. “Yeah, he um — followed us here, obviously. We’ve been tracking him. He’s in custody right now.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry says, and then laughs loudly, a weight lifting off his chest. “Oh my god! Liam!” 

Liam smiles, his whole face crinkling up, and Harry hugs him. Just wraps his arms around his broad shoulders and squeezes as hard as he can. Before he has a chance to think about what a stupid thing it was to do, Liam hugs him back, squeezing just as tightly. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, feeling like he could cry. “Really, Liam, I know I was a pain in the ass but thank you. I always felt safe with you.” 

“No, no, it’s —” Liam pulls back, mouth set in a serious line, searching Harry’s gaze. “Listen, tell me if this is too much but — Would you like to go out with me? Like, a date.” 

Harry laughs. He feels full of hot air, almost. Light and like he might float away he’s so happy. “That depends,” he says, grabbing the lapel of Liam’s jacket, tugging him closer. 

“On what?” Liam asks, breath puffing visibly between their mouths. Harry glances down to Liam’s, and back up to his eyes. 

“On whether or not you’ll kiss me when it’s over.” 

Liam smiles slowly, letting it stretch across his face before bringing his hand up to cup Harry’s head. “I’ll kiss you right now, if you’ll let me.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nods. “I guess I’ll allow it.” 

“Good,” Liam says, and kisses him. It's deep and searing and good enough that Harry forgets where he is for a moment, slightly dizzy when Liam pulls back. 

"Yeah," Harry says eventually, grinning. "We can go out." 

"Good," Liam repeats, and then kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! sorry abt the ending idk. [I'm here](http://jessimond.tumblr.com) if you need me


End file.
